by Allan Topol
“Bullshit. You wanted to sandbag me.” He held out his hand. “I want the tape now or I’ll get a court order.”
“Give me a minute.”
She left him standing there and returned a few minutes later holding a CD which she handed to him. “This is the original we made. I prepared a copy which we’re keeping. This one has the best sound quality.”
Craig’s anger was tempered by one cold, clear fact. In his effort to use the media to boast about his success, the man calling himself Musa Ben Abdil had given Craig his first clue at finding his identity and locating him. Sure the voice was garbled. But maybe it was his. If not, one of his confidantes. And if they could identify the voice, they had a real lead.
11
CAP D’ ANTIBES, FRANCE
General Zhou stood on the balcony of his luxurious estate, blowing smoke into the air from a Cuban cigar and looking at the sparkling lights of the Mediterranean a mile below. He had a clear view between the tall pines that lined the two sides of his property and the red clay tennis court between them. Yachts were gently bobbing in the water. In October the movie stars and other celebrities were gone. The crowds, too.
This place is a bit of heaven, he thought. We have nothing like it in China. He should be grateful for being able to split his time between this house and the comfortable apartment in Paris. Not to mention having unlimited money forwarded by his brother, Zhou Yun, one of the most successful industrialists in China. And gorgeous, sensuous Androshka. Not much competition in tennis, but far more important, after a year and a half, she still drove him wild in bed. Men would give anything for a life like this.
But he was still miserable. He wanted to be back in China. More than that, he wanted to replace President Li as the head of the Chinese government. One day, before long, he would do that. His brother would tell him when to make his move and return with the support of military leaders with whom he regularly communicated. Meantime, he was painfully aware every day of his gilded life that he was in exile.
Ah, the bitterness of exile.
He never forgot who was responsible for his banishment: That bastard, Craig Page.
If it weren’t for Page, General Zhou’s ingenious plan for Operation Dragon Oil would have succeeded. He would now be in Beijing. Praised and revered by the entire Chinese nation. A hero without equal. A military genius embarking on conquests to exceed Caesar or Napoleon.
But Page had foiled Operation Dragon Oil. Exile was General Zhou’s punishment.
The passage of a year and a half had only intensified his hatred for Craig. Not a day went by without General Zhou dreaming about revenge. Getting even with Page—and then some. Sure, he could arrange Craig’s murder. But there would be no satisfaction in that. Rather, he imagined scenarios in which he succeeded in an operation and Craig suffered the humiliation of defeat. None of them seemed plausible, until this evening.
As he watched Craig squirming in front of the CNN camera, he realized how painful the Spanish train bombing was for Craig. General Zhou had no idea who Musa Ben Abdil was. Or the Spanish Revenge. But he knew what he had to do: Find Musa and join forces with him to wreak such devastating blows on Page with future attacks that his career would be ended. Page would be regarded as a pariah among governments. Never to be appointed to a position anywhere. That would be revenge. Sweet revenge.
The first step was getting to Musa. General Zhou was pleased he had recorded Craig’s interview. He wanted to hear it again.
He returned to the living room, hit the play button, and listened intently.
As he did, he was struck with another idea. This Musa Ben Abdil could have value to General Zhou, apart from being an instrument for his revenge with Page. In his future plans, General Zhou not only wanted to be President of China, but he was determined to make China the preeminent power in the world. That meant surpassing both the United States and Western Europe. Musa had planned and executed the Spanish train bombing so brilliantly that General Zhou recognized in him the potential, if properly supported, to destabilize and weaken Europe, helping China to overtake it. His fertile imagination charged ahead. Europe and the United States, though rivals in some sense, were joined at the hip as the Western Christian forces in the world. While reluctant to admit it, both were at war with Islam. If he helped Musa build an army strong enough to weaken Europe, General Zhou could unleash him on the United States. Musa could be valuable to General Zhou in achieving Chinese world dominance.
All of that was good, but he still had to locate and to make contact with Musa. As Craig’s interview played on, General Zhou, puffing on a cigar, heard Jean Claude say, “Will you confirm that the bomb wasn’t an IED, an improvised explosive device, but instead a sophisticated state-of-the-art Chinese bomb activated by remote control?”
Excited by what he just heard, General Zhou hit the stop button, rewound, and played it again to make sure he had it right. Yes, he did. And then Craig conceded, “The bomb was manufactured in China.”
General Zhou now had the wedge he needed to get into the door with Musa.
Once he turned the power off, Androshka walked into his study wearing a pink lace bra, which covered about half of her gorgeous round breasts, a matching thong with lots of brown bush showing on the sides, and five inch stiletto heels that raised her height to his at six two. He had once read that beautiful women were more erotic in lingerie than nude, and this evening Androshka was proving that. Just the sight of her aroused him.
He stood up, making no effort to tie his blue silk robe, letting his erection jut out.
“You have a problem,” she said.
“And I have a solution.”
She kissed him on the lips, then pulled away, “Not when we’re having dinner at the Eden Roc. It’ll keep. Besides, you made me wait for dinner until you watched the Craig Page interview. I’m starving. You should get dressed.”
“Five minutes. I have to make one call.”
Using his cell phone directory, he looked through the list of top officials in the Chinese military, most of whom were still loyal to him, until he found what he was looking for: Freddy Wu.
When he was still Chief of the Chinese Armed Forces, General Zhou had appointed Freddy the head of China’s Office of Military Supply-Western Europe and North Africa. Chang Wu, the Shanghai-born son of one of China’s rising wealthy industrialists, had been educated at Oxford, where he renamed himself Freddy. Flamboyant, described derogatorily as a dissolute playboy by hard-line old-timers, high-living Freddy had been spending his time mingling with the rich and famous in Western Europe as “a representative,” which meant glorified salesman, for his father’s industrial conglomerate. General Zhou concluded that, with training on Chinese military hardware, Freddy would be perfect for the job of cracking the American stranglehold on arms imported by Western European and North African countries.
General Zhou knew he made the right choice when Freddy said, “If you give me a large expense budget, I’ll succeed. The Americans are afraid to make payoffs to the key officials because of some stupid foreign corrupt practices law of theirs. They’re competing with one hand tied behind their back.”
So General Zhou gave Freddy an unlimited budget. As he told people, “Freddy exceeded it, but the arms are flowing.” Freddy, based in Paris, kept his job after General Zhou’s forced retirement. “I’ll never forget what you did for me,” Freddy said when General Zhou moved to Paris. “You can always depend on me.” General Zhou had seen Freddy from time to time in the last year and a half.
He dialed Freddy on his cell.
“Oh, General Zhou, it’s good to hear from you.”
He loved it when people still called him General.
“I need some help.”
“It would be an honor. Please tell me what I can do.”
“There was a train bombing in Southern Spain today.”
“I heard about it. A terrorist act.”
“Correct. Please keep everything I’m about to tell you confidentia
l.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve learned that a sophisticated Chinese bomb was used.”
“I had no idea.”
“I’m trying to find out who directed this terrorist attack. It would be helpful if I had a list of all customers and delivery points in the last six months for sophisticated bomb devices activated by remote control.”
“Just in Spain?”
General Zhou thought about the question. It might have been brought into the country. “No. Your entire sales territory. Western Europe or North Africa.”
General Zhou recalled Elizabeth Crowder’s article in this morning’s International Herald. She had written that the warning note was signed by “Musa Ben Abdil.” The reporter was Craig Page’s whore. General Zhou bitterly recalled how she helped Craig block Operation Dragon Oil. So she must have gotten her information about the Spanish train bombing from Craig.
General Zhou told Freddy, “The customer’s name may be Musa Ben Abdil, but don’t limit the search to him.”
“I understand. How soon do you need the information?”
Before General Zhou had a chance to respond, Freddy answered his own question. “I’m sure as soon as possible.”
“Correct.”
“You’ll have it within twenty four hours.”
The next morning was a gorgeous, sunny day, perfect, blue sky, and unseasonably warm. Androshka was sunbathing nude next to the pool in back of the villa. Meantime, General Zhou sat at a table on the patio, poring through the pile of newspapers his aide, Captain Cheng, had brought from Nice early this morning. He was looking for any other tidbits about the Spanish bombing, while he sipped another double espresso, which he now enjoyed. He doubted if he’d ever drink tea again, even when he returned to China.
His cell phone rang. Freddy Wu.
“Yes,” General Zhou said anxiously.
“I have the information you wanted.”
“Tell me.”
“A month ago, four very powerful, sophisticated bombs, which we call the Rock Blasters, with remote control activators, were delivered to Musa Ben Abdil. Payment was in cash. Four hundred thousand euros.”
“Excellent. Where was delivery made?”
“In Morocco. On a road twenty kilometers east of Marrakech.”
“Do you have any contact information for the purchaser?”
“He refused to divulge it. I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. You’ve given me plenty.”
General Zhou hung up the phone. He climbed down the stone stairs to the pool. Androshka was on her back reclining on a chaise, eyes covered with damp tissues to minimize the sun.
“Androshka,” he said, “I have to go to Morocco with Captain Cheng for a couple of days for business.”
She uncovered her eyes and sat up. “Can I come … Please. I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco. Mikhail would never take me. But you’re not like he is,” she said it in a sugary-sweet voice that made him smile.
He didn’t care what her former boyfriend, that Russian thug, once a barbarous general in the Soviet army, now a murderous oligarch, did or didn’t do. But as he thought about it, taking Androshka could be an advantage. Though he and Captain Cheng hadn’t worn military uniforms in the year and a half since they left China, even posing as Chinese businessmen might attract Moroccan government surveillance. But tourists. That was the best cover.
“OK, Androshka. Start packing.” She jumped up, threw her arms around him, and kissed him. “I’ll be good for you there,” she said.
He laughed. “You’re always good for me.”
He was waiting for Captain Cheng to bring the car around for the ride to Nice airport when he heard the distinctive “ping … ping … ping” of the encrypted cell phone he used only for calls with Zhou Yun, his brother in China.
“I heard the most incredible good news,” Zhou Yun said. “You won’t believe this.”
“Tell me.”
“President Li has been diagnosed with colon cancer. It’s being concealed from everyone in the country.”
“How did you find out?”
“I made his personal physician a very wealthy man by letting him invest in one of my real estate deals. In return, he keeps me informed of President’s Li’s health.”
His brother’s thoroughness always amazed General Zhou.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“The fool rejects surgery which his doctors are recommending. If he doesn’t have surgery, they’re giving him a year to live.”
General Zhou wanted to celebrate President Li’s impending death, but he was thinking more about the presidential succession.
As if reading his mind, his brother said, “Once the news gets out, the struggle will begin for the next President. Fortunately, we don’t have a democracy. The Central Committee will decide. I will immediately begin talking to each of the members of the Committee. Lining up their support for you ahead of time. I can persuade some by calling in personal obligations that must be repaid. Gifts will buy the support of others. I’ll do my best to secure your selection as the next President of China.”
“I have maintained good relationships with the military leaders.”
“That’ll help.”
“Will my exile be a factor?”
“Absolutely not. Enough people now dislike Li that being his enemy is an advantage. I’m feeling confident.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Of course. Meantime, do you have enough money? Or should I increase the deposit in your account each month?”
“I have plenty.”
General Zhou turned off the phone and thought about his close relationship with his brother. Their unbreakable bond had been forged in 1967, at ten and twelve, when Mao unleashed his Cultural Revolution. Their father, the National Economic Director, had been a rival of Mao for power. Mao, that monster and villain, responsible for the deaths of more Chinese than the total number killed by Hitler and Stalin, didn’t tolerate rivals. He sent the boys’ parents to the countryside in the north, near the Siberian border, for reeducation and indoctrination. General Zhou and his brother were forced to remain in Beijing.
“We can only trust each other,” Zhou Yun, the older had told General Zhou. And they supported themselves in the struggle to survive. Six years later, their father returned, a broken shell of the man who had gone. No longer a rival to Mao. He explained to the brothers that their mother had died of malnutrition.
The irony was that, when Mao had seized power, their father had relinquished a comfortable life in San Francisco to return home for the rebuilding of China, with a dream of it one day becoming the dominant power in the world.
Together, General Zhou and his brother dedicated their lives to realizing their father’s dream, General Zhou as the Commander of the Chinese Armed Forces, his brother as one of the wealthiest and most powerful industrialists in China, with tentacles reaching into construction, real estate, energy, and military supply.
Riding in the car to Nice Airport, General Zhou thought about how the stakes had grown with his brother’s call. His chance to become Chinese President was no longer a vague dream, off in the indefinite future. It was real, and it was immediate.
Last night after dinner and sex with Androshka, General Zhou had uncoupled his naked body from the gently snoring Androshka. He had woken and summoned Captain Cheng from his bed in the visitor’s house on the estate grounds. With Captain Cheng at the computer, General Zhou learned from the internet about the great Islamic General Musa Ben Abdil in the fifteenth century and the battle for the Alhambra in Granada in 1491. What was clear to General Zhou was that Musa Ben Abdil wasn’t the real name of the perpetrator of the Spanish train bombing. He was Islamic and determined to restart the battle with Christians in Europe, and perhaps even in the United States.
All of this underscored General Zhou’s conclusion of last evening. When he became the Chinese President, he would be locked in a struggle for world supremacy with the two other
great powers: the US and the EU. Both were struggling to control militant Islam. With proper help and guidance, this Musa Ben Abdil could strike a dagger at the heart of Europe. And that would have a spill over effect to the US. Despite President Dalton’s protestations, the two were blood twins united in their birth. The origin of Western civilization. Now his trip to Morocco was even more important.
12
PARIS
Waiting for Jacques to arrive, Craig sat at his desk, thinking about the call made to CNN after the Spanish train bombing. The receptionist had passed the call to Marie Laval, who immediately recorded the caller’s number from caller ID.
Craig had that number checked last evening. It was a payphone near the pont de l’Alma, in a fashionable area of Paris across the river from the Eiffel Tower. He asked Jacques to have police canvass the area to see if anyone remembered anything unusual. So far, he hadn’t heard from Jacques.
Then there was the report of the audio expert on Craig’s staff, which Craig stared at, resting in the middle of his desk.
Marie immediately began recording the call. The man said, “Marie Laval?” Once she replied, “Yes,” he turned on some type of machine and played a prerecorded garbled-voice message from a second man, claiming to be Musa Ben Abdil and taking responsibility for the bombing.
The audio expert concluded that both men were from North African backgrounds. Moroccan, Algerian, or Berber. But their French also contained Parisian inflections. The expert believed both lived or had lived in the Paris area for a significant period of time. He was clear they were not Spaniards.
None of this made sense. Why were Frenchmen of North African descent bombing a train in Spain? It would be as easy … no, easier, for them to bomb a French train.
He was shaking his head in bewilderment when Jacques walked into the office dripping in his raincoat.
“Sorry it took so long,” Jacques said, “But the Dutch were a pain about Ibrahami. Took their good time getting back to me.”